It's the season isn't it? No, not the season for all your warped family shit to come spewing out over the Christmas Turkey. It's meant to be about the last five minutes of a Christmas Carole (As in the movie, depending on reading speed it'd be dead difficult to judge the last 5 minutes of the Dickens - watched scrooged, it's better), Scrooge opening his window, yelling at that kid to skip away down the street to get a goose that you know'll have been a bit much for someone with a crutch.
That's right, Charity. Giving to others who are less fortunate than ourselves at the most difficult time of the year ("You know what, I could not have a turkey this year & just leave the oven on..."). I get this, I rarely give to others, in any way. It's kind of a personal 'thing' of mine to view any benevolence to others as a weakness in character (I think 'The Prince' ruined my mind). However, I know this isn't the right thing to do, I bitch & moan a lot about being skint all the time when really I spend all my money on buying Pate and silly t-shirts. Some people have it really bad, some people can't have hallumi when they want it & never saw Luche Libre at The Roundhouse.
...However, I'd like to know when exactly the art of soliciting donations for worthy causes became such a blood thirsty, militaristic endeavour. Nowadays you're walking down the street, literally minding your own business (probably for fear of being attacked/witnessing some nastiness and not doing 'the right thing' - that's right, read the fine print on The London Paper, no one saw anything) when all of a sudden, out of nowhere you are launched upon by a mad, wild eyed zealot. That's probably not right, the first thing that hits you is an odd smell, I've figured out what it is. It's the smell of recently removed greasepaint. That's right, they're all drama students who, after many a 'we're really looking for an actor with more range" has decided that those bills aren't going to pay themselves. It's not the end of the world though, maybe one of your victims will be Kenneth Branagh, although he will still probably think you're a twat.
It's just so personal and invasive. I reckon the psychology behind it is similar to that of the crusades, mixed with an acute telesales style logic. Imagine back in the day, a group of Muslim lads, chilling out, playing Hac-e-sac, when all of a sudden over the hill bounds a legion of soldiers powered by their unearthly rightness. My ex used to do it, she had some pretty convincing arguments in favour, ones I couldn't really argue back to. But, to someone who struggles to fill 5 minutes with my nearest & dearest it's a real trial. Especially with the mixture of extreme elation & aggression ("So you want to be my best friend or you'll kick me directly in the face?").
Finally, I've put together some excellent avoidance techniques for minimising the conversations with these types:
- "Scope you say? No thank you, one of them killed my Grandad"
- "Battered women want my help? I doubt it, I tend to contribute to the problem (universal sign for 'drinky drinky'")
- "Yes, you can have £2 a month, all you have to do in return is tell me the most horrific, disgusting secret you have"
- "Yes, I could spare the money, that's my business, I haven't once commented on your weird skin thing"
CX
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